The church of St Jude's was a tiny stone-built chapel with a wooden
extension that leaked whenever the rain was from the west. At this time of
year, the parishioners didn't mind the musical drip of water into the
buckets placed around the nave. Instead, they concentrated on the
colourful decorations that the children had made for the harvest festival.
Corn dollies sat on the pews and shared pedestals with the few stone
saints that graced the church. Swags of bright ribbon were tied around the
rafters and wooden pillars. Pieces of sackcloth were stitched together to
form a banner populated with embroidery and felt shapes that illustrated
Christ's parables. Set up near the altar was a trestle table, piled high
with harvest produce in either its raw form or baked, boiled or bottled
into secondary goods.
Conn was busy with the display when the door to the church was pushed
wide. Without turning around, for he was used to his parishioners
wandering at will through the church, Conn called, "Come and see the
latest additions from the Widow Jacobson. I think they look very fine
placed here beside the pumpkin - perhaps I should build another table this
year!"
"Perhaps you should."
Conn turned, not recognising the voice, his hands still full of pots of
jam and chutney. He stared at the man who had entered the church and who
now stood in the center of the nave, looking about him with distaste as if
he'd stumbled into a witches' coven rather than a country chapel making
ready to celebrate the harvest.
"Who are you?" he asked, knowing full well what he was, for the
stranger's mode of dress gave it away inasmuch as his own Augustinian
robes, now long folded away, had advertised his own house and calling.
The newcomer was heavy and fleshy, his skin stretched and waxen with
perspiration so that he resembled a bloated corpse. His deadened looks
were emphasised by the robes he wore. White, pure and pristine, with a
black scapular over the top, and around his neck, a heavy wooden cross
with the figure of Christ moulded from silver. Even his eyes were pale,
given intensity by the half-moon, wire-rimmed spectacles he wore.
"I am Thomas Selkirk," he announced, as if Conn should be
familiar with his name. "And are you…" he paused as if unsure
whether he was addressing the priest or a parishioner, "Father
Buchanan?"
Conn put down the pots of conserves carefully and wiped his hands down the
back of his trousers. He'd found it a boon to dress casually outside the
hours of worship, but now he wished that he'd been more circumspect. He
went towards Selkirk and held out his hand in greeting, but the friar
stepped back in rebuff.
"You wear secular clothes?"
Conn shrugged, embarrassed. "At times it's easier."
"A man can forget his duties if he does not wear the uniform of his
calling," Selkirk informed him coldly.
"I disagree," Conn said with a good-natured smile. "This is
a community of farmers and workers who know their calling no matter what
clothes they wear. I am not about to forget my job, either, even though I
may have put off the cassock temporarily. Manners maketh man, brother -
not our clothes."
Selkirk sniffed, and without being invited to do so, took a seat in the
nearest pew. "You are not quite what I imagined," he said at
length.
"Really?" Conn sat opposite him and leaned his arms across the
back of the pew. "And why would the likes of you be interested in a
poor Augustinian like me?"
Selkirk smiled thinly. "You know what I am, then."
Conn did not answer directly. "The Hounds of God surely find poor
sport in such a region as this."
"Domine canis. I expected better than childish insults from a man
educated at St Andrew's," Selkirk said. "But in answer to your
query: there has been a resurgence of interest in the work of the Evil
One, and with All Hallow's Eve only a few days' away, we should work
together in the name of the Lord. I hold a special bull from the Pope
himself, giving me the authority to gather support for my work against the
Evil One. I seek worthy candidates to join me."
Conn stood up abruptly. "I don't like Inquisitors."
Selkirk looked at him. "We are much maligned. We work only for the
greater glory of the Church, and for God Himself."
"I have seen innocent lives ruined by the work of your
colleagues," Conn said.
"You Augustinians! So gentle and trusting. So ready to believe good
of even those who commit crimes," Selkirk mocked lightly.
"Everyone deserves a second chance," Conn returned.
"Something the Dominicans and the Inquisition seem not to believe
in."
"Oh, we do," Selkirk, said. "But we call it auto-da-fé."
Conn showed his teeth in a rictus of a smile. "My apologies, but I
find a sense of humour in an Inquisitor to be in poor taste. I cannot
imagine how I could help you, even if I did have an interest in your
quest. I work hard to ensure that the Devil does not set even one cloven
hoof into my parish, and I hope I will continue to flourish in God's
service. Good day, brother."
Selkirk did not rise from his place, but continued to regard Conn calmly.
"And thus you will dismiss me in such haste, without even hearing my
proposition?"
"I already told you - I do not want any dealings with the
Inquisition." Conn turned his back and returned to the table, rolling
up his sleeves and rearranging the pots of jam on the display.
"I do not wish to recruit you as an Inquisitor." Selkirk laughed
at the thought. "Aside from the fact that you are not a Dominican,
and that you lack the necessary patience and tact for such a position…"
Conn snorted.
"…what I want is something quite different," Selkirk
continued, frowning at the interruption. "You have made quite a
reputation for yourself as an exorcist, Father Buchanan, and that is what
interests me about you."
"An exorcist?" Conn shuffled his feet, embarrassed again.
"It's more by accident than design, I can assure you."
Selkirk stood up and began to pace along the nave towards him. "Your
accident is God's design."
"Perhaps." Conn looked down at the table of harvest produce and
randomly plucked an apple from the display, polishing it against his shirt
until it shone.
"The abbot at Inchcolm spoke highly of your ability at
exorcism."
"The exorcisms I have performed were all simple."
Selkirk raised his eyebrows. "For you they were simple, but many
priests find them a trial, a burden they cannot carry no matter how
willing."
"Father Abbot always said I had a demon inside me," Conn tried
to joke. "Perhaps it calls to others, and so I find it easier to
exorcise them."
"The demon of guilt, perhaps, Father Buchanan?" Selkirk
questioned delicately. "However, I am not here to persecute you for
past sins… I need an exorcist, and as you come so highly recommended,
then I require your services."
Conn realised that the nails of his hand had pierced the skin of the
apple. Dismayed, he licked at the sweet tart juice that bubbled over his
fingers and then bit into the fruit. It crunched loudly in the silence of
the church, and so, emboldened by the taste, he asked, "But why does
an Inquisitor need an exorcist? Surely all you have to do is burn the
devils out, rather than waste your time with exorcisms."
Selkirk smiled. "Ordinarily, yes… but this situation is not
ordinary. The Inquisition exists to stamp out heresy, but we are not
equipped to deal with all the forms of evil that Satan sends amongst us. I
need your help, Father Buchanan, because I cannot burn this particular
victim of darkness and chase out the demon that inhabits it."
Conn took another bite from the apple and thought about this.
"Because he's already dead?" he guessed, comparing it with an
exorcism he'd performed several months before.
"No," said Selkirk, completely serious. "Because it's a
loch."
"A loch." Conn blinked. "How do you know it is infested
with darkness?"
Selkirk stared at him as if he were a simpleton. "The parishioners of
Rothrennry have complained about their wells, which draw directly from the
loch," he said. "I have been through the area myself, and indeed
the wells at two hamlets are foul-smelling. A number of infants and
elderly people have died already, choking on the water, which grows black
when it is poured into drinking-vessels."
Conn shook his head in dismay. "This does not prove that the loch is
cursed! Often at this time of year, the water in the wells is a little
stagnant. All that is needed is for the men to climb down the shaft and
clear it out."
Selkirk continued as if Conn had not spoken. "Then there are the
lights and visitations that occur at dusk on the shore. Several young men
and women have been discovered drowned, and always their deaths are
foreshadowed by strange, eldritch lights flickering across the
water."
"Willo-the-wisps," Conn explained rationally. "Marsh gas or
some such thing."
"And the drownings?" prompted Selkirk.
Conn shrugged. "That is harder to account for."
Selkirk leaned forwards. "A demon, Father. The loch is accursed. And
you must exorcise it."
Conn thought of what the alternative would be for him, and sighed in
defeat. "I will try," he said, and Selkirk all but clapped his
hands in triumph.
*******
The loch in question was two days' walk from St Jude's. Conn packed a
small bag with victuals and set off for the parish of Rothrennry. He knew
already that it was not like his own living, based around a village with a
church, but that it was a collection of lone farms and tiny hamlets. The
chapel of Rothrennry lay apart from the habitations, and the priest who
lived there was old and apparently somewhat eccentric. Conn considered it
a minor miracle that he had not been asked to exorcise the priest as well
as the loch.
The journey was not difficult. After a half-day's walk along the road,
Conn took a well-trodden path across the fields, skirting the edge of the
forest, before turning west and entering the greenwood itself. Once within
the towering silence, he found himself proceeding more cautiously. His
cheerful whistling died away to be replaced by the nervous thump of his
heart, and a number of times he clutched at the cross he wore beneath the
rough linen of his shirt as a bird started out of cover. He wondered if he
should have worn his Augustinian robes for the journey, but in truth he
was so accustomed to shirt and trousers that he hadn't spared a thought
for his cassock.
As the light faded and the woods grew dark, Conn stopped for the night
beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree. He lit a small fire and sat
with his back to the trunk, warming his feet idly as he ate sparingly of
bread, cheese, and cured ham. After his meal, he drank from the water
bottle that he'd packed, and then he settled into his blanket and pillowed
his head on a cushion of bracken.
It had been many years since he'd slept outside at night. He rolled one
way and then the other, muttering at the twigs and stones that lodged
themselves against his body; and then, whenever he felt himself to be
teetering on the edge of slumber, an owl would hoot, or a fox would bark,
and he would snap back to wakefulness.
He finally slept just as dawn was breaking the eastern horizon, and when
he awoke, Conn realised that nearly half the day had passed. The sun's
rays parted the canopy of leaves above him, slanting down to illuminate
the ground where he lay. He stared up at the sky for a moment, feeling a
growl of hunger stir his belly, and then he kicked off the blanket and
packed his bag swiftly. Within moments he was back on the trail, munching
the rest of the bread as he walked. With luck, he could make up some of
the time he'd lost, and would be in Rothrennry by late afternoon.
Conn was thwarted in his attempt at the ford that formed the parish
boundary. At this time of year, the river should still have been low.
There had been no heavy rain for weeks, and yet the water ran dark and
strong. Conn had put a cautious foot into the river and retreated once he
knew how swiftly the undercurrent was moving. Anybody attempting to ford
it would be swept away in an instant, and although he'd once been a strong
swimmer, he had no desire to see if his old skills had survived the
transition to priesthood.
Instead he followed the river along the bank, back towards the forest,
searching for an easier place to cross. It took about an hour until he
found a place where the banks narrowed and a branch overhung the river,
and by the time he'd climbed the tree and edged along the branch to swing
himself to the opposite bank, Conn was tired and foul-tempered.
By the time he reached Rothrennry church, the evening was well advanced.
As Conn climbed the hill, he could see twinkling lights far distant from
the farms and houses that comprised the parish. Ahead of him, the chapel
and the small presbytery that adjoined it were dark and still. Curious,
Conn hurried his pace and approached the house, calling out a greeting.
There was no reply, so he knocked at the door, stepping back from it to
glance up at the solid walls of the building. When nobody came, he walked
around to the back of the presbytery, peering over the fence that
demarcated the garden.
A tangle of weeds and tall grass obscured his view, and so Conn swung
himself over the fence, pushing through scratchy brambles full of
over-ripe blackberries that left dark purple stains on his clothes. The
garden had clearly not been tended for several seasons, as even the stone
flags set outside the back door had weeds pushing through the cracks.
Before Conn got to the door, he had to brush away a number of clinging
seed-heads from the dying dandelions.
There was no reply to the second knock. Curiosity had given way to worry
and caution, and so Conn tried the door handle. With a juddering creak,
the door opened. He stepped inside to find himself in the kitchen. A thick
layer of dust covered the surfaces, and when he breathed in, all he could
taste was the slow, heavy scent of decay.
"Father?" he called, his voice hushed in deference to the
silence of the house. Moving warily, he pushed open the next door and
walked along the corridor. The few rugs placed on the floor puffed dust
with each footstep, and Conn fought the tickle at his throat that
threatened to turn into a cough. Instead he tried to distract himself,
looking at the pictures that hung from the walls, until he came to the
sitting room. It was also empty of life, with furniture moping in the
gloom and more pictures covering the walls.
Conn frowned, suddenly realising that the subject of the paintings was
always the same: the hills and a loch. The landscape he knew to be the
hills he'd seen on his way to the chapel, but he hadn't yet seen the loch.
He moved to the window and looked out, but could not see the gleam of
water beneath the rays of the setting sun. With a shrug, he turned away
and went back into the corridor, then started up the stairs. At the top,
he peered first into the guest room, and then he moved towards the
priest's bedroom. Conn fully expected to find the old man lying dead in
his bed, but nothing could have prepared him for the shock he had when he
opened the door.
Again, the room was empty of human life. The bed sheets were rumpled as if
somebody had slept there, and on the nightstand there was a basin of water
still half-full and with a film of soap floating on the surface. On the
floor was thrown a nightshirt, and the armoire stood open, clothes
trailing from it as if the priest had dressed in a hurry. But this was not
what caused Conn to stop in the doorway and stare in confusion.
All around the room were pictures, paintings and sketches of the hills and
the loch. An easel was set up beside the window, and Conn walked towards
it, knowing that this would be the one place in the house that gave a view
of the loch. He looked out of the window and watched the last glow of the
sun reflecting over the water, and then he turned his attention back to
the pictures.
A whole sheaf of them had fallen down one side of the bed, and when Conn
picked them up and flicked through them, he realised that they'd been
drawn feverishly, the pencil scrawling across the surface of the paper
roughly. At first the images were quite carefully executed, but then the
lines became more jagged, the smudging wilder, and the contours of the
landscape reduced to simple shapes.
He dropped the papers and looked again at the painting on the easel, a
chill shuddering his spine as he saw what he'd missed before. Although the
picture was almost exactly like all the others in the house, the
application of paint was so heavy that it had dripped and run, giving the
image a nightmarish quality. In the loch, which boiled with swirls of grey
and black water, Conn could make out a shape emerging from the surface. He
looked closer, bending down to see better as the light faded, and then he
jerked back as he made out a pair of eyes and a dark gaping mouth set into
an amorphous body.
Conn shook his head and looked again. He found that, if he moved to the
left or right, the face was not visible. Some painter's trick, he thought;
and then, as he tilted his head to examine the face in the water again, a
flicker of light outside the window caught his attention. He straightened
up, thinking that perhaps the priest had been out visiting one of his
flock and was now returning home; but the light came not from the path
that led to the church.
It came from beside the loch.
Conn's breath caught in his throat as he remembered what the Inquisitor
had said about strange lights around the loch at dusk, and what his
response had been. He followed the dancing pattern of light, thinking that
it could well be a willo-the-wisp, and then he resolved to put the matter
out of his mind, turning from the window. He would light some candles and
wait for the priest in the sitting room. Pleased with this plan, he was
about to leave the room when his gaze was drawn to the lintel above the
door. He hadn't noticed it when he'd come in, but now he couldn't avoid
seeing it. Daubed in paint so red and dark it looked like blood, he saw
the words: It's coming.
A second shiver cut Conn's spine, and slowly he turned back to the window.
Down by the loch, the lights had multiplied, swarming and spinning,
calling to him. The demon in the water was waiting. Conn stared at the
lights for a moment longer, then he hurried from the room, clattering down
the stairs and pausing only long enough to snatch up his bag from the
kitchen before he was running down the slope towards the loch.
*******
His steps only slowed when he neared the shore, and there he paused,
taking breath and feeling the sharp bite of cold night air against his
throat. Fog rolled in, clouding the surface of the loch and pressing
itself to the landscape, nestling in hollows and swirling as he walked
through it. The lights twinkled ahead of him, and Conn walked forwards,
keeping the water's edge on his left.
The fog closed about him. No longer could he see the dark shape of the
church on the hill, and neither could he see the dancing lights that had
lured him onwards. Conn lifted a hand and ran his fingers through his
fringe, feeling the cold dew cling to his skin before it slid away. The
fog was real enough: a creation of nature, not of a demon.
Something loomed ahead of him - a shape clothed in wisps of grey. As he
got closer, Conn offered a greeting and saw the figure turn as if
startled. It was a young man, a village lad judging by his patched and
worn shirt and trousers. He was good-looking, his blond hair tousled and
his blue eyes curious in their expression.
"Not a night to be wandering alone," Conn said with a smile.
The lad sighed and nodded. "I was out with my sheep when the fog came
down," he said. "Father asked me to pasture them closer to the
farmstead now that winter draws near."
"Your father is right," Conn said. "There are wolves abroad
in the hills, and you'd do well to keep a close eye on your sheep. Where
is your house? I will bear you company for a while."
The lad smiled at him. "I live only half an hour from the loch,
although with this fog I'm not sure which direction we should take.
Perhaps if we continued walking this way, I might recognise some
landmark."
Conn fell into step beside him, and they moved on into the fog. He was
careful to keep a watchful eye on the waterline, unobtrusively turning his
steps every now and then to steer them away from the edge of the loch. The
lad at first chattered on inconsequentially, asking his name and whence he
had come, and Conn answered with good humour. They negotiated a clump of
rocks, and when he turned to check on the lad's progress, he had
disappeared.
Conn frowned into the drifting fog, and then began to walk again. He
hadn't gone far when he heard a snort and crash, and out of the mist came
a horse. He admired it briefly, watching as the animal tossed its head and
shook out its mane. It was a handsome beast, a chestnut stallion with
bright eyes and a glossy coat, and surely it was spirited and a joy to
ride from the way it lifted its hooves and danced sideways as he came
closer.
"Good boy," Conn said soothingly. "Are you lost?" The
horse whickered, stamping its foreleg in agreement. "Your owner would
be sad to lose such a fine mount," Conn continued. "Follow me,
and we shall see if we can get you home safely."
The horse edged towards him, dipping its head and snuffling, but Conn
would not reach out to pat its nose or to caress its silken mane. It
dropped behind him, its nervous footsteps fading on the soft ground near
the water's edge, and then it, too, vanished.
By now, Conn knew the manner of creature he was dealing with - a
water-kelpie, a demon of monstrous size and looks that dwelt in the lochs
and which lured men to their deaths by trickery.
In preparation for its next manifestation, he reached into his bag and
withdrew the knotted cord that served as the belt to his cassock. It had
been thrice blessed: once at Inchcolm, then again by the Inquisitor, and
finally by himself. It would be a powerful demon that could break through
these bonds of faith, and Conn only hoped that his physical strength could
withstand the test he was about to undergo.
A little further around the loch there was a small jetty. As Conn drew
nearer to it, he heard a panicked cry from the water, and when he looked
out into the fog, he could see a woman splashing about, seemingly
drowning. Still cautious, Conn hurried out onto the jetty, stepping over
the broken and rotten planks until he came to the end. Just beyond his
reach, spluttering and wild-eyed with terror, the woman fought to stay
afloat.
"Help! Please help me!"
Conn folded his arms and waited. It went against his every instinct to
remain on the jetty, but he knew that kelpies could change their shape. He
was certain that the drowning woman was no more real than the young
village lad or the handsome stallion, but the only way to be sure was to
wait for the demon to throw off its worldly shapes and to take on the
forms of darkness.
"Please!"
Conn hardened his heart as he watched the woman go under.
With a great effort, she thrashed back to the surface, gasping and
choking, and tried to swim towards the jetty. "Please help me!"
she cried. "You think I'm that monster, but I'm not! Just -
please!"
Conn knelt down on the jetty and studied the woman's face, as if by doing
so he could ascertain the truth. All he saw was pale skin, almost ghostly
in the fog, and begging eyes.
"Please…"
She slid beneath the water again, and did not come back up.
Conn waited, his muscles tense, his eyes scanning the surface of the loch
for the slightest bubble or ripple to mark her passing, but the loch was
as smooth as a mirror. As the moments passed, Conn began to worry that he
had made a mistake. Perhaps the woman was a lone traveler like him who'd
been lured by the demon in its guise as the young man. It was possible.
Cautiously, Conn lay down on his front and peered over the edge of the
jetty at the silent water. He pulled at one of the rotten planks beside
him and managed to work it free; then, careful to keep his balance, he
poked at the surface of the loch.
Tiny shivers splintered the stillness, rippling out from the plank as he
probed beneath the water. Conn was aware of how quiet it was, with the
only sounds coming from the lapping of the water and his own breathing.
The fog drifted, its cold touch blanketing him until he felt that the
jetty was cut off from the shore. His breath mingled with the mist, puffs
of warmth in the chill, but it seemed as if he were the only living thing
upon the loch.
Conscious that he might be responsible for the death of an innocent woman,
Conn let the plank slip from his hand. He watched the piece of wood
submerge slowly, the air-bubbles fizzing to the surface as it twisted and
turned, then it began to drift away. Conn sighed, suddenly tired, and he
rested his forehead against the end of the jetty, his arm still hanging
over the side.
It was several seconds before he realised that the very tips of his
fingers were wet. Horrified at his lapse, he pulled away from the water,
examining his fingers and then wiping them dry on his shirt. It was too
late - the damage was done: he'd touched the water of the loch. Conn sat
up and began to crawl backwards along the jetty, his senses alert for the
slightest noise or movement. All he heard was the sound of his boots
scraping over the jetty, and then he bit off a curse as he put his weight
on a rotten plank and the wood snapped sharply beneath him.
The sound preceded a rush and roar of water, and then the jetty splintered
into pieces. The fog rent apart as a figure broke the waves and wrapped
its arms around Conn's neck, hanging half-in, half-out of the water.
"You have the patience of a saint!" exclaimed the kelpie in
annoyance, and Conn had the confused impression of a pair of lively blue
eyes in the creature's pale face, framed by wet, dark blonde hair. The
demon was still in the form of the drowning woman, and Conn was
temporarily rendered speechless by the vital beauty inches away from him
that only moments ago he had consigned to a watery grave.
"The patience of a priest," Conn corrected, smiling at the shock
that reflected in the kelpie's expression.
"A priest?" the kelpie growled, tightening her hold around
Conn's shoulders. "I killed the last priest that came here."
"You won't kill me," Conn said confidently. "I'm an
exorcist."
The kelpie snarled and lunged back, trying to drag Conn from the jetty
into the water, but Conn held on grimly long enough to unravel the rope
he'd wrapped around his left wrist, and then he flung it about the
kelpie's body.
She howled as the blessed rope bit into her flesh, and struggled wildly,
pulling Conn even closer to the end of the jetty.
"Lie still, demon!" roared Conn, his feet scrabbling for grip.
"Take it off me, and I shall let you go!" she countered,
writhing and soaking Conn with wave after wave of cold water.
"I don't want to let go - I want you sent back to Hell!"
The kelpie wailed and fought even harder, and Conn felt his grip slipping.
He couldn't continue to hold her and stay on the jetty at the same time,
so he made his decision. Taking a deep breath, he rolled into the loch,
pulling the kelpie closer and embracing her to ensure that the rope stayed
wrapped around its body.
The water was freezing. Conn kept his eyes open on the way down, seeing
the black wings of his hair splay out like a halo silvered with bubbles.
As it got murkier and darker, he was aware of the pale naked body held
against him. The kelpie still fought, but her struggles were weaker as
they drifted below the layer of cold water into the sleepy heat of the
lower reaches of the loch.
Feeling came back into Conn's limbs, and with warmth came the realisation
that he needed to breathe. His chest was tight and his movements sluggish,
but he managed to lift his head towards the kelpie. A crazy thought had
entered his mind: the kelpie could breathe underwater, so if only he could
coax her to share her air…
Conn kissed her, sealing her lips with his own. She jerked against him,
confused by the intimacy, and then returned the kiss eagerly. Conn felt
her wind closer to him, willingly binding herself further into the rope.
He took a tentative breath from her mouth.
The kelpie purred in pleasure, the sound deadened by the water surrounding
them but still tangible through the vibrations of skin against skin. The
closer she held him, the more Conn wanted to go on kissing her, even if it
meant that the two of them would be locked together in this embrace at the
bottom of the loch for all eternity.
Fractured images flashed though his mind, as fast as lightning strikes,
and at first Conn thought he must be dying. People always said that life
passed in front of one's eyes at the moment of death; and then he realised
that this was not his life that he was seeing. Instead of the memorable
incidents from St Andrew's and his childhood, Conn could see a fragmentary
history of all the kelpie's victims, rapid and tumbling, until it settled
on the image of the drowning woman, no longer helpless in the water but
smiling and joyful, happiness in her eyes as she looked at a handsome
young man in his family tartan, with flowers wreathed around his neck.
Then the image changed: the woman now prostrate with grief beside a newly
dug grave; and then there was darkness, flames and torment that screamed
around Conn's head and echoed so much that, in fright and sympathy, he
broke the kiss.
Immediately, he fought to breathe again, the water leaking into his mouth.
Conn thrashed about, striking for the surface in panic, but the kelpie
still clung to him. He nearly loosened the rope that held her fast, but
then he remembered the Inquisitor's charge and resigned himself to death.
He tried to concentrate, offering his soul to the safekeeping of Christ as
he began to lose consciousness.
He got only halfway through his prayer before the darkness took him.
*******
When he woke, Conn was lying on the shore with the small hard pebbles
biting into his back. He could hear the soft lapping of the water, and
could feel that he lay half-out of the loch, his feet and lower legs still
submerged. Stranger still, there was a weight covering him. Conn opened
his eyes cautiously and stared up at the kelpie that lay on top of him,
the rope still wrapped around her torso.
"You're awake," she told him unnecessarily. "I saved you.
Now let me go."
Conn blinked, his thoughts still confused after his time in the water, and
he struggled to find his voice, frowning as he said, "Gràinne…?"
The kelpie slumped down onto his chest wearily. "That was my name
once, yes. A long time ago. Lifetimes ago. Before I became this."
"You offered your soul to the Lord of Darkness."
Gràinne's head drooped further. "I only did what I thought was
right."
Conn reached up a hand and patted the smooth naked shoulder closest to
him. "What you thought was right has endangered your immortal
soul," he said vaguely, his fingers moving of their own volition to
caress the skin beneath his hand.
Gràinne looked up at him, her unhappiness forgotten as she gave him a
mischievous grin. "Do you find me pleasing, Father?"
Conn suddenly became aware of what he was doing, and he snatched away his
hand, protesting, "No! Of course not!"
"I think you do," Gràinne said, her eyes alight with curiosity
and teasing. "Most of the men who follow the lights are easily
ensnared by my equine form. Only occasionally do I lure a man astray with
this body."
"It's a very fine body," Conn said, embarrassed to be in such a
compromising position.
"And you like this body," Gràinne whispered, slithering
forwards over Conn's chest until she could look directly down at his face.
"Why else did you kiss me?"
"To stay alive," Conn replied bluntly.
"You could have let me go and saved yourself."
"I'm an exorcist. My soul is prepared to meet God whenever I happen
to fail in battling the creatures of darkness," Conn said, knowing
that he sounded pompous but desperate to hold onto his dignity.
"I don't think that your soul is as prepared as you think it to
be," Gràinne murmured, bending her head towards Conn's. "You
desire me. A priest should not feel desire - not for a woman, not for a
man, and certainly not for a demon…"
"I do not desire you, I want to save you!" Conn snapped.
Gràinne lifted her head for a moment, a frown passing across her
features. "Save me? But you cannot. I am not a mortal corrupted by
darkness to be rescued by the light. Satan made me a demon, and what is
done cannot now be undone."
"At the end of the world, when Judgment Day is at hand, you might
reconsider," Conn said. "If I can save you, then you will not
suffer."
"Ah. When that day comes, I, and the others of my kin, either will be
blasted into ashes or forgiven, depending upon the mood of the Almighty.
God hates the sin but loves the sinner, and oh, what a sinner I am…"
Gràinne lowered her head again and pressed kisses along Conn's jaw, even
as he struggled to turn away.
"No - damn you, demon!" Conn wrenched his head to one side and
closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to the cold wet pebbles on the shore.
He could feel the heat building between their bodies, and it contrasted
oddly with the chill of the loch on his feet and legs.
Gràinne chuckled with amusement, abandoning her kisses for long,
luxurious sweeps of the tongue across his skin, working down his throat
into the neck of his shirt.
"You can't seduce me," Conn said loudly, hoping that he sounded
confident when his resolve was fast being undermined. "What can you
hope to gain from this?"
Gràinne shifted her weight on top of him and began to unbutton Conn's
shirt. "If I cannot tempt you into the water and willingly to your
death, then the only thing I can gain from our meeting is pleasure,"
she said softly. "Pleasure, and knowing that I have the power to make
you beg for my kisses. A priest begging a demon! How delicious it will be…"
Conn tightened his grip on the rope, twisting the ends until it bit hotly
into Gràinne's pale flesh. "You forget I have the means to control
you."
"And you forget that I saved your life!" she cried, her eyes
flashing. "You are indebted to me, Father - so if you want to
preserve your chastity, then you should free me at once, before things
progress much further."
"You will not take your pleasure with me, demon." Conn felt the
rope chafing his palms as he twisted it another half-turn, and Gràinne
squirmed, hissing at the pain.
"Then we are at an impasse. I could drag you below the water again,
but then I would forfeit my right to the repayment of your debt to me.
Until you let me go, we are locked in combat," she said, and then she
smiled wickedly as she squirmed again. "I confess that I am beginning
to enjoy our battle. Which one of us will break first, I wonder?"
"It will not be me!" Conn swore, trying to heave Gràinne off
him. The kelpie laughed, delighted, and then laid her head against Conn's
chest.
"I can hear your heart beating," she whispered. "Do you
know what a marvel that is? For centuries I have lived without a heart,
with just the darkness inside me. I longed to listen to the heartbeat of
every human being I lured and devoured. Death always stopped their pulse
before I could lie on them thus, and all I could do was tear open their
bodies and eat their flesh, taste their heart's blood flowing ever more
coldly from their veins."
Gràinne rubbed her cheek against the wet cloth of Conn's shirt, nuzzling
at the buttons to free each from their anchor of thread until she exposed
Conn's chest to the warmth of her lips. Gently, she nosed through the wet
hair until her lips rested over Conn's heart, feeling the inches of skin
and bone beneath her pounding with each breath, each beat.
"It's faster," she whispered, so quietly that Conn had to strain
to hear her. "Does your heart beat for me, Father?"
Conn groaned in anguish as he felt the unmistakable throb of arousal
course through him, firing his belly and waking long-dormant lusts.
Gràinne wriggled slyly against his erection, murmuring encouragement.
One knowing hand snaked down between them, cupping the heat at Conn's
groin and moulding it to the wet fabric, coaxing more power, more
strength, into his erection. Conn caught himself before he thrust his hips
up towards Gràinne's hand, and instead he focused on dislodging the
tempting naked demon from her sprawled position over his body.
His shuffling attempts to rid himself of Gràinne only served to bring
them closer. Conn gasped, blushing hotly, when he felt the demon untie the
laces that held up his trousers and dip her hand inside to explore. The
sensation of being enfolded in another human hand - a demon's hand, Conn
reminded himself almost hysterically - was unbearably exciting. He nearly
let go of the rope as Gràinne squeezed him, a maddening smile upon her
lips and the teasing promise of desire fulfilled in her eyes.
"Even if you let me go now, I am persuaded to stay just to finish
what we have started," Gràinne purred. "You think a demon such
as I has much opportunity for pleasure? I must take it when it is
offered."
"I offer you nothing," Conn ground out.
"You perjure yourself before the Lord," Gràinne whispered, her
hand moving slow and steady on his body. "Is this nothing? And so to
have aroused you, would it not be cruel to deny you release?"
"Do as you please," Conn spat, uncomfortable within his own skin
as the need for fleshly love clawed its way out of the abyss to which he'd
long ago consigned it.
"But I want to please you, too," Gràinne told him with a
teasing smile.
Conn felt her shift above him, and calculated when she would be most
unbalanced - and then he rolled sharply to one side, spilling Gràinne off
him and sending her sprawling into the water.
Quickly, before Gràinne could recover herself, Conn pinned her down and
took firmer hold of the rope that bound her.
"That's the end of your demonic little game," he said,
satisfied.
Gràinne gazed up at him. "It solves nothing," she said, her
voice soft. "Merely that you are in charge - for the moment."
Conn tried to push away the thrilling, forbidden images that sprang to
mind at Gràinne's words. He cleared his throat and said sternly,
"You are right - I am indeed in charge of this situation. And
although it pains me to admit it, I acknowledge my debt to you for saving
me. However, as my life has been given over to God, then it was His will
that I be saved. My debt is not to you, demon, but to God."
Gràinne showed her teeth in a snarl. "I do not do God's work! You
are indebted to me, not Him!"
Conn looped the rope even tighter. "Then will you accept a half-debt
as compromise? For I cannot recognise you as the master of this
plan."
"Half-debt?" Gràinne hissed, squirming as the rope scored her
flesh. "You try to trick me. A priest should always speak the truth.
There are no half-measures in the realm of the truth."
"Nevertheless, a compromise is what I am offering," Conn said.
"I cannot give you your freedom without reneging on my word as a man
of God, but in place of your freedom, I can offer you anything else that
is within my power to grant."
Gràinne laid still, an expression of doubt and mistrust upon her face.
"Anything else within your power," she repeated slowly, and Conn
suddenly wondered if he'd just made a mistake.
"Within reason," he amended hastily.
"That is hardly fair," Gràinne protested. "You force me
into accepting a compromise, and now you wish to change the terms of the
agreement further! No, I will not agree to anything reasonable… This is
a moment that all of us from the darkness long for, a chance to make
priests and monks and friars do our bidding; and at this time, the things
that we should request - that you murder the Pope, that you force the
Church into heresy - they cease to matter."
Conn could scarcely breathe for anxiety. "What do you want?"
"Companionship," Gràinne said angrily, blinking her eyes as if
to clear them of tears. "I want you to surrender your chastity to me.
I want you to be my lover."
For a moment, Conn lost his ability to speak; and then the words rushed
out in a tumble: "You truly wish it? For me to break my vows and -
and embrace you as a lover, when you could take many lovers in any of your
forms?" and then, more plaintive, he asked, "Why me?"
"I am a water-kelpie," Gràinne said bluntly. "We cannot
breed, so we have no need to search for a mate; but we remember desire
from our human lives. Our sole purpose is to ensnare and devour mankind.
No human would willingly lie with a kelpie. But you… You will lie with
me and become my lover, because you have no choice but to agree to my
request."
Gràinne paused, looking up at Conn's pale expression, and then she added
mischievously, "Besides, we have already established that we find one
another to be mutually agreeable, have we not?"
Conn stared at her, confused by the physical attraction as much as the
moment of empathy they'd shared in the loch. He'd spoken the truth: he
genuinely wanted to save Gràinne from the torments of Hell, and it was
the first time in his career that he'd felt such a tug of understanding
with the demon he should be exorcising. He wondered if this was a test, an
exercise in his capacity for compassion; but even with that in mind, he
was startled to hear himself replying, "I agree. I will become your
lover."
Barely aware of what he was doing, he bowed his head and touched his lips
to Gràinne's, feeling her quiver in anticipation. Conn's hair tumbled
forwards, stroking across the kelpie's face. It seemed to be a caress
gentler than any she'd experienced before, for Gràinne lifted her chin,
anxious to return the kiss.
Conn moved back slightly, hearing Gràinne's tiny sound of need; and so he
smiled, gently licking at the trails of water that covered her lips.
Gràinne chased his tongue, parting her lips to draw Conn into a deep
kiss, and finally Conn obeyed reason and instinct.
Just as before, there was a moment of pure sensual bliss, a freefall drop
into an ocean of understanding. Conn let go of the rope to put both hands
to Gràinne's face, cradling her head as they kissed long and deep.
Gràinne struggled, the rope unraveling as she lifted her arms to wrap
around Conn's shoulders, but neither of them noticed. The distant tug of
undercurrent swirled about them, pulled them under; and then Conn lifted
his head, breaking the waves of desire, and he stared down at Gràinne's
suddenly watchful expression.
"And now you have kissed a demon by choice," Gràinne said
softly. "Not to save yourself, not to take my air, but because you
wanted to. Tell me, Father, what does transgression taste like?"
Conn licked his lips thoughtfully; and when he replied, his voice was dark
and husky. "Sweet," he said, leaning closer again. "You
taste sweet."
Gràinne remained motionless, shocked by the answer and by the thunder in
Conn's eyes. "You mean that," she murmured. "But - I am a
demon. I am from the darkness, where rancid things spawn and crawl -"
"And I am a priest, and so from the light. Opposites attract, or so
I've heard." Conn smiled and kissed her again. "I've also heard
that the only way to tame a water-kelpie is to mount her and ride her to
exhaustion, when she will swear undying fealty to her rider. Is that true,
sweet kelpie?"
Gràinne looked at him with wonder. "You would really - you would do
that for me? You wish to snare me and bind me to you?"
Conn had no thought for the Church, for St Jude's or for the Inquisitor,
as he lay there held in Gràinne's arms. "Yes," he replied.
"Yes, I want you with me."
Gràinne pulled him closer. "Then ride me," she whispered,
"ride me until exhaustion, and I will grant you your wish..."
